Does He Love You
by Ms Quinn Fabray
Summary: AU, set in the future. Puck and Quinn are married and he's cheating on her with Rachel. Rated M for later chapters. Based on Reba McEntire's "Does He Love You?"
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is chapter 1 of 4 (with the potential for more depending on how everything goes). It is a collaboration between myself and PoliticsandProse. This chapter is all me, but the next chapter will be written by her :)

_**I've known about you for a while now  
>When he leaves me he wears a smile now<br>As soon as he's away from me  
>In your arms is where he wants to be<strong>_

He's gone again. He's always gone this time of night, or at least it feels that way lately. I'm not stupid, I know by now that there's someone else.

Why does he need more? We've only been married three years this past April, and we have a perfect, chubby, six-month-old baby boy. But I guess it isn't enough. I guess _Hunter and I_ aren't enough. Because night after night, he disappears.

Granted, it's not _every _night. Not anymore. In fact, it's been nearly three weeks since he's crept from our bed when he thinks I'm asleep, (I'm the mother of a six month old, does he really think the tiniest noise doesn't rouse me?) but nonetheless.

It's really an insult to my intelligence, if you ask me. I've been with the man since I was eighteen; I think I know him better than anybody by now. And I especially know when something's off about him.

If I have it figured correctly, he started up with this….well whatever she is… around the time Hunter was two months old. I can even pinpoint the day it began. He'd said he was going out with a client and that he'd be home by eleven at the latest. Eleven o clock turned to midnight, and midnight became one am, and finally he'd come stumbling through the door at two fifty-three, reeking of whiskey and coconut. I'd been deliriously tired, but even in my exhausted state, I knew something was off-kilter.

Who knows, maybe it's my fault. I'm the one who insisted that the new roof was more important than buying him a new wedding band when he lost his. Then again, who the Hell wears their wedding band in the shower at the gym?

He's _such _an idiot sometimes.

When we got married, he promised me the world, the moon and the stars. I should have known it was too good to be true. What I _do _know is that I'm too young to be alone in a cold bed while my husband's off doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who. I'm only twenty-six, still as pretty (I think) as I was when I was eighteen, and _yes _I'm still carrying some of the twenty pounds I gained during my pregnancy, but I have a six month old, God damn it! I'm a full-time mother and most days I don't have the energy to do the yoga DVD that Noah so _helpfully _bought me for my birthday. So sue me.

Sometimes I think it'd be different if Noah had been the one to stay home with Hunter instead of me. It seemed like the logical choice, me staying home. I was the one who'd be breastfeeding after all. But day after day I regretted it more and more. As much as I loved that little angel sleeping on the other side of the wall, his father would never have met _her _had it not been for my decision to be a stay at home mother. Because he had to have met her at work, right? When he wasn't at work, he was home with me and Hunter. Or at the gym, but even I know Noah doesn't pay attention to anything but his workout at the gym. And it's not as if he'd fall for our ditzy college-aged babysitter. He likes his women sharp as a tack. Like I used to be before Mommy brain took over.

Now half the time my brain is either mush from being up all night with Hunter, or focused on things like diapers, or formula, or Mommy and Me classes. I know Noah misses our 'grown-up time', but what can I do? Sure, we haven't had sex since Hunter was born, but we have a child, our lives aren't the same. Of course I miss sex, I'd be crazy not to. Noah was my first (and only) lover, and he's certainly never made me regret that. It killed me to know that the lack of spark in our relationship lately had caused him to seek comfort in the arms of another woman. Especially because spark had never been something that was lacking in our relationship. At least, not until recently.

We met the first day of college, orientation really. I was instantly taken in by his cocky demeanor. One flash of that sexy smile and I was a goner. At eighteen, he was my first taste of real love. Yes, I'd had boyfriends in high school, but I was too much of an overachiever, too focused on myself and my goals to let any of them get serious. But that all changed the moment Noah Ezekiel Puckerman strode into my life.

He used to say that the sun shone a halo over my head the day we met. He says those things sometimes, I'm sure you know the kind. Those impossibly sweet things that make you melt into the floor. Well Noah Puckerman was a master of sweet talk; then again it never felt like sweet talk. It never felt like he was feeding me lines, he just has a way of saying the exact right thing at the exact right time.

I suppose you could say we clicked instantly. By junior year we were living together. The architecture major and the interior design major. A match made in heaven.

Or so you would assume.

He proposed the day of our graduation and I was over the moon. The perfect man, the perfect job lined up, everything was falling into place. And a year to the day later, we were married. As cliché as it all sounds, my wedding day and the day my son was born were the two best days of my life.

It hurts me really, to think how happy we were. Our wedding was the most beautiful ever. Naturally the designer in me went a little crazy, but the outcome was nothing short of magnificent. The perfect mixture of Christian and Jewish traditions. I'd refused to convert, naturally, so he had to settle for having a half-Jewish, half-Christian wedding. Not that either of us minded compromising. We were too busy staring into each other's eyes all day to mind. So young. So full of love, and hope, and dreams of the future. It felt like nothing could touch us. What a cruel joke.

But it wasn't all amazing. Noah and I both have explosive tempers and things haven't always been smooth sailing for us. But that was one of the things I always loved about him. Even when we were screaming in each other's faces, I knew that he was the only person I ever wanted to have these types of fights with. And the angry and/or makeup sex that came afterward was always a nice little bonus.

I hear Hunter fussing over the baby monitor, snapping me out of my pathetic nostalgia. Normally I'd let him self-soothe a little, but not tonight. Not when my mind is racing. When it's taking everything in me not to picture Noah in the arms of another woman. Not to wonder what she looks like, if she's prettier than me, if he loves her. Because he couldn't. He _can't. _He's _my _husband, the father of _our _child for God's sake, and that should mean something to him.

"Hey Honey Bear," I murmur, looking down at the chubby infant now wailing in his crib. He looks awful, much more miserable than he normally does when he's crying. I drop my hand to his forehead, and just as I'd feared, he's burning up. "Oh baby," I whisper, scooping him into my arms, hating Noah in that moment. Of course he disappears when we need him the most. Of course he's with _her_ while Hunter's burning up with fever, holding his ear like a volcano exploded in it. "Shhhh sweetie, it's okay. Mommy's gonna make everything better," I promise, cuddling the screaming child tight to my body. "We need to get you to the doctor, don't we?"

Thank God it's only September, so I don't need to bundle him up before rushing out to the car. After he's safely fastened in his car seat, I take out my phone, making a frantic phone call to Noah. I try to remain calm, but how can I really, when my little boy is screaming and crying and obviously in _pain? _I take a deep breath when he answers, regaining composure. "Noah, I am on my way to the ER with our son right now. Our son who has a blistering fever, and an ear infection, I think. So you better meet me at the ER with baby Tylenol, and you better have a damn good reason for not being home with us tonight."

The words feel like poison on my tongue, because despite everything I do still love him. I love our family, and when he's actually around, I love our life together. But tonight I have to be strong. Not just for me, but for Hunter. The tears will no doubt come later, but right now I need to focus on getting my very sick little boy the medical attention he needs. And that means I need his dumbass of a father, who just so happens to have the insurance cards in his wallet. More than likely right next to the condoms he uses on his mistress.

Noah somehow makes it to the hospital before us (really, where does this woman _live?_) so I don't have to worry about waiting for Hunter to get care. By some kind of miracle, the ER is relatively quiet tonight so he's able to be seen right away. I leave Noah to deal with the insurance stuff, taking my poor little man into the cubicle. The doctor quickly confirms what I already knew (ear infection), prescribes him some antibiotics, and directs us to the 24-hour pharmacy.

Once we're home with Hunter's medicine, and he's been given his first dose, things start to calm down. Noah's been nothing but sweet to both of us since we emerged from the emergency room (though how he can kiss his son after he's been with _her _is beyond me), and I bite back a snide remark when he offers to sing Hunter to sleep (really Noah, the child has an _ear infection_). It can wait. At least until Hunter's asleep. Which he soon is once the medicine kicks in, and I rock him a little in his chair.

I nearly laugh in Noah's face when he climbs in bed next to me. How dare he? "Don't," I say, flinching as he tries to wrap his arms around me. "You still smell like her. How dare you try to climb into our bed and act as if I don't know where you've been?"

He recoils at my words, mumbling to my back. "I'm sorry baby. I love you so much. It's-it's done. I won't see her anymore."

I try not to let his words be a comfort, because really, how do I know if he's telling the truth. "Don't do me any favors," I spit. "And please, shower. I'm getting sick just smelling her on you." It's cruel, I know, but well-deserved. How he can even try and touch me right now is simply appalling.

It's always confirmed he's been with her when he comes home smelling like cheap coconut tanning oil. I mean really, you'd think he'd at least find someone who didn't smell like they were lost at the bottom of a bottle of Malibu.

He disappears then, and I hear the shower in our bathroom running. Within ten minutes, he's back, standing in front of me in nothing but a towel."Fuck, Quinn, will you at least look at me?" he whisper-shouts, and even with my eyes buried in the pillow I know his eyes are pleading. That's one of the things you learn about someone over the course of eight years, all their many looks.

"No," I insist, finally letting a few tears flow. "Do you have any idea how much you've humiliated me? I've given you eight years of my life, Noah. I've given you a marriage, and a child, and all the love I have to give. And how do you repay me? With an affair. You're twenty-seven, Noah. We've been married three years. If you're already cheating, I'd hate to see the rest of our life together. In fact, if you're already cheating I don't think I want the rest of my life with you anymore." When I finish my speech, I roll over, sobbing into my pillow.

I hear him shuffle out of the room, clearly defeated. Not much he can say though, is there? Only three years into our marriage and he begins an affair, and while I'm not sure I'll be able to follow through on my threats of not wanting our life together anymore, I know that this is a step in the right direction. For too long I've sat idly by, letting my husband make a fool of me. Quinn Fabray was never a pushover, and Quinn Puckerman can't be either. I've finally stood up for myself, and now Noah has two choices: he can ditch his mistress, and spend the rest of our lives (or at least the next few years) making it up to me, or he can lose both Hunter and I.

When I'm all cried out, I curl around my pillow, deciding it'd be silly of me not to catch a few hours of sleep while Hunter is semi-peacefully sleeping.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **As promised, this was written by the lovely and talented Politicsandprose. She does Rachel far more justice than I ever could, enjoy!

I'm just about done reviewing the most recent draft of the Corrigan brief when my phone beeps with that ridiculously irritating tone that he insists on resetting his alert to every time he comes over.

Every time he leaves, more like.

It's Tuesday at ten twenty four, which means his wife's finally gone to sleep. I'm sure I'd have passed out long before ten thirty if I had an infant, to be honest. I don't know how she does it.

I'm sure he's just implying he's unhappy at home to convince me (and himself) that it's okay, what we're doing. (It's not and I know it but, honestly, I can't stay away from him and I don't want to.)

I read his text, a stupid "3" with a question mark and, oh, what the hell? My nine a.m. was cancelled and I have the best secretary in town. So I shoot back a "yes" and head into the shower.

By the time I'm done, he's reclining on my bed in just his boxers, my reading glasses perched on his nose and the brief held in front of his eyes. Like he's actually reading it.

He's such an idiot sometimes.

"I don't fucking understand this shit," he says as he pulls off my glasses and tosses the document over the side of the bed.

"That's why I'm the lawyer and you're the architect," I tell him as I walk around the bed and pick up the papers. "You draw really straight lines on paper and I blur ethical ones in court."

"You've never blurred a line in your life," he laughs before bringing his arms up behind his head and lacing his fingers together, no doubt waiting for me to join him on the bed.

I walk over to my briefcase and drop the brief inside before turning to him and crossing my arms. I should remind him that we're not only blurring lines but erasing and redrawing them at will, but then he smirks and crooks a finger at me and I really can't do anything but go to him.

It had started so innocently. An interview at a great architecture firm in the legal department. A nice man with a lovely smile and no wedding ring. That he was wearing, at least. (He later told me he wasn't wearing it because he lost his and their house needed a new roof. I would pick the roof too.)

I didn't get the job but Noah had invited me out for a drink to "dull the harsh pain of rejection". To be honest, I didn't want the job anyway, but he was attractive and didn't have a ring on his finger and he was flirty. Upon further reflection, he was being _kind_ and not flirting, but after three whiskey sours for me and an uncountable number of high end beers for him, I couldn't tell good from bad and neither could he.

But that's neither here nor there.

I should have stopped then. I shouldn't have slipped him my card and told him to "call any time". Because he took the card and called that night to set up a Saturday night. And then the next Wednesday. And then two Tuesdays after that.

It was two and a half weeks and a second hook up before I even knew he was married. I only found out because he slipped up and told me his son made the most adorable face at him before he left for work that morning.

I should have stopped then and there; we both knew I couldn't, I didn't, I won't and I can't.

Noah Puckerman is exactly the reason I told myself I should never fall in love. He's charming and endearing and really very sweet. But he's also a liar and a cheater and that's not really okay at all.

But the stupid jerk is actually the only man I've ever let myself start to fall for. And I have a really bad feeling that if one of us doesn't end this soon, I'm going to fall all the way. And that's just going to be a mess for everyone involved. A bigger mess, I mean.

And now he's on my bed and calling me over and my legs are moving before my brain can even tell them to stop and think about it for a minute. I'm pretty sure my brain wouldn't be able to convince them anyway.

I climb into bed with him and he kisses me and tells me he's missed me (my body) and he wishes he could have called sooner (it's been almost three weeks) and that he's sorry (which I actually believe).

I'm wearing only a towel since it's a lot easier for both of us if I'm in as little as possible. We never have much time – he's got to be home before his wife or son wake up for a middle of the night feeding – and I want it just as bad as he says he needs it. Really, I should just get naked every time he texts.

But that would probably make me feel like even more of a whore and there are days when I can't even look myself in the eye after being with him the night before.

I know I'm an idiot for staying with him. I wish I could be like the incomparable Jennifer Nettles from Sugarland in the band's powerful ballad about being the other woman. I wish I could stand up and just kick him to the curb. I shouldn't answer his texts. I should change my number and forget he exists.

I should do just about anything but drop the towel from around my body and climb onto his lap.

But I do and things go as they usually do: he takes off his boxers and slides on the condom. He whispers how much he wants me and how he needs me and how he's sorry he can't be with me more and a whole multitude of things I know are lies but have convinced myself to be truths because, quite frankly, they make me feel better about myself. And if I'm not number one to me, who am I going to be number one to?

I have to admit that Noah is a generous lover, despite his many other flaws. He never fails to pay attention to my most erogenous zones, he makes sure I feel nothing but pleasure, makes sure I come at least twice and always before him. He whispers sweet things in my ear and gently skims his fingers over my skin. And when we're done, he always tells me I'm amazing.

He never elaborates and most of the time I wonder if he means at distracting him or at making love with him. I mean having sex with him. Nothing about our relationship has to do with love.

"God, Rach, that was so fucking good," he tells me as he lays on the bed, sweating and panting. "Seriously, babe. It gets better every time. I wish I could be here more with you."

I never listen to what he says post-orgasm. He sometimes mumbles he's going to call me more often and that breaks my heart, not just for me but for his wife – her name is Quinn – and their baby boy, Hunter.

I know she deserves better than what we're doing to her. I know she shouldn't have to wonder why her husband comes home smelling like some odd mix of coconut shampoo and ink. And I know she probably does.

I've seen her before, his wife. I've never spoken to her, just caught a glimpse of her at the supermarket, Hunter in his carrier and Noah by her side as they picked out vegetables. She's beautiful and I wonder why he ever leaves her side.

"Thank you," I say softly as I lay on my own side of the bed, my head turned to look at him. "I like that thing …"

"With the hip? I know, right? I read about it in GQ. And don't fucking make a bitchy comment about me reading. I'm not an idiot," he snaps.

I arch a brow. "Stressful day?"

He sighs and apologizes, telling me Hunter's got the sniffles and he feels like a shit dad for walking out and leaving his wife and kid right now.

He is but I don't tell him so because I want him to come back again someday.

I nod and he rolls over to kiss me. It's probably an attempt to get me to forget the fact that he just mentioned his wife and his son while naked in my bed with the condom still on. We have rules about that kind of thing but he never follows them and I crave his presence too much to enforce them.

I hate myself a little bit more every time he forces me to think of his family at home with no idea where he is and who he's with.

I sometimes wonder if Quinn knows. She's an intelligent woman, I gather, so she must know something's up. It's been months, though, and I haven't gotten a threatening text or an impromptu visit. Noah's texts have been less frequent but he's busy at work and Hunter's teething (and you cannot imagine how much I hate knowing that) so I don't expect him to call as often.

I hate that I still expect him to call at all. And, in the light of day, I hate that he does.

"Where's your head tonight, Rach?" he asks as he discards the condom (finally). "You're not, like, talking."

"Got a lot on my mind," I answer as I look over at him. He gets this adorably perplexed look on his face and I know I can't tell him I'm thinking about why he's here with me and not with his family and how cheap he makes me feel when he's not inside of me. "The brief," I lie. "It's all on my head and if it sucks they'll probably move me to the mail room or something."

"You're, like, the best little lawyer in town," he says with a grin. "My girl's gonna kill that brief or whatever."

I hate it when he calls me his girl. I _hate_ it because I'm not and I know I never will be and God knows I _want_ to be.

I'm about to respond, thank him like usual, when his phone rings and I know without having to look that it's Quinn. I reach down and grab his phone from his pants and hand it over and he's shushing me (no shit, Noah) and answering.

Before I can blink, he's up out of bed and grabbing his pants, sliding his boxers on and telling Quinn he'd only run out for some more baby Tylenol or whatever and he's on his way and he'll meet them in the ER.

"Gotta go," he tells me frantically. "Quinn's taking Hunter to the ER and she's freaking out. Fuck! I can't believe I fucking walked out on them. I'm such a fucking idiot."

He gets dressed in record time (and that's saying something) and he's heading for the door before he stops, walks to the bed and kisses me. He tells me he'll text again and he's sorry to cut our time together short.

Once he's gone, I let myself hate him. I hate him for me and I hate him Quinn. I hate him for his son. And a little for himself too because, despite it all, it can't be easy on him either.

I take a deep breath and decide it's one of those nights where I'm going to need to shower again if for no other reason than to wash his scent from me.

I climb from the bed and pull the blankets and sheets off, moving to toss them into the hall. I can't sleep on them. How am I supposed to lie in the same sheets we just had sex in? Especially when he was on the phone with his wife minutes after? I can't and I won't. There has to be _something_ I control about this messed up relationship.

When I come back into the room I see something on the floor so I go over and pick it up. It's one of Noah's personalized pens that he usually keeps in his office. I roll my eyes and go to put it on the mantle so that he can get it back when he comes over next. I don't want it – it's a reminder that he has a completely different life than the one he shares with me every so often. And I'm just selfish enough to want to ignore that little fact.

I head in and take another shower, scrubbing until my skin is red and raw and smelling of Dove and not Axe. I don't bother getting dressed, instead just pulling on my bathrobe and curling up into a ball on my bare bed, whispering a silent prayer that my lover's son isn't seriously ill or injured.

_But you're the one he rushes home to  
>You're the one he gave his name to<br>I'll never see his face in the early morning light  
>You have his mornings, his daytimes<br>And sometimes I have his nights_


End file.
